


The Rare Ungovernable Element

by a_big_apple



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Childbirth, Falconry, Happy Ending, M/M, Magic Revealed, Mpreg, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-19
Updated: 2016-11-19
Packaged: 2018-08-31 23:46:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8598631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_big_apple/pseuds/a_big_apple
Summary: Years ago, when Merlin had only just started as Arthur’s manservant, Arthur found the idiot standing awkwardly in his chambers, flushed and embarrassed and smelling like the barest outer edge of heat.  “I forgot to take my herbs,” he explained, twisting his hands together.  “I’m sorry.  I have to--”Arthur waved a hand to forestall any explanation.  “When should I expect you back?”“Three days ought to do it,” Merlin replied, visibly relieved.  “Thank you, sire.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt: "Canon AU. Merlin's eyes glow when he orgasms. When Arthur inevitably discovers this during their night together, he banishes Merlin. Merlin goes to the druids, determined to make the best out of a bad situation and learns more about his magic. It is during his first few months there that he discovers he is pregnant. The child grows up not only raised by Merlin, but with a whole tribe of druids who are practically co-parents.  
> Years later, Arthur has decided to abolish the ban of magic, and after writing up a declaration he requests the druids look over the treaty to ensure that the laws are sound and that neither magic users nor haters can use the laws to do wrong. The druids promise to send their best man. Arthur is expecting to be greeted by two cloaked figures in the courtyard. - Emrys had asked that arrangements be made for a child, but when they remove their cloaks he is astonished to find that this 'Emrys' is actually Merlin and that the child bears such a frightening resemblance to Arthur himself."
> 
> It didn't go quite the way I intended when I read the prompt, but I think I got fairly close. 
> 
> Also, a quick note about timing--the beginning of the story is set mid-season 4, after The Secret Sharer, and diverges from there. The latter half of the story takes place at a time parallel to season 5, and some story elements of that season pop up here.

_**Send Forth the High Falcon**_  

_Send forth the high falcon flying after the mind_

_Till it come toppling down from its cold cloud:_

_The beak of the falcon to pierce it till it fall_

_Where the simple heart is bowed._

_O in wild innocence it rides_

_The rare ungovernable element,_

_But once it sways to terror and descent,_

_The marches of the wind are its abyss,_

_No wind staying it upward of the breast—_

_Let mind be proud for this,_

_And ignorant from what fabulous cause it dropt,_

_Or with how learned a gesture the unschooled heart_

_Shall lull both terror and innocence to rest._

_-Léonie Adams, 1959_

 

Years ago, when Merlin had only just started as Arthur’s manservant, Arthur found the idiot standing awkwardly in his chambers, flushed and embarrassed and smelling like the barest outer edge of heat.  

“I forgot to take my herbs,” he explained, twisting his hands together.  “I’m sorry.  I have to--”

Arthur waved a hand to forestall any explanation.  “When should I expect you back?”

“Three days ought to do it,” Merlin replied, visibly relieved.  “Thank you, sire.”

“Perhaps in the interim I’ll get some decent service,” Arthur teased, testing, because even in his vulnerable state Merlin hadn’t once looked politely down or away from Arthur’s eyes.

He’s rewarded with a brilliant grin.  “Decent service is boring.  You’ll miss me.”

“I’ll do no such thing,” Arthur replied, allowing only the tiniest twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth.  “Now off with you, you’re stinking up the whole room.”

“Yes, my lord,” Merlin rumbled with a laugh, and retreated.  The scent that had been radiating off of him, a wet sort of smell like parched soil in a sudden rainfall, lingered for hours.  It wasn’t unpleasant--an omega’s heat scent never was--but it wasn’t distracting, either.  Arthur sat at his desk, idly re-reading reports, and the scent curled around him like a friendly arm, familiar and companionable.

Merlin being Merlin, he’d forgotten his herbs several more times in the intervening years, but had always simply sent a message with a servant.  It’s quite a surprise when Arthur comes back from training sweaty and in need of a bath, to find Merlin looking similarly overheated and hurriedly polishing Arthur’s ceremonial sword.  The thirsty-earth scent he remembers from that early mishap is stronger now; it envelops him like steam, and he closes the door behind him to keep it from spilling into the hallway.  He doesn’t remember it being so... _compelling_ before, either.  He stands stunned for a moment, his heart suddenly racing, his lungs thick with syrupy breaths.

Merlin looks up, heat painting his cheekbones and his ears and his lips rosy.  “I’m sorry,” he says, “I’ll be out of your hair in a minute, only you’ve another knighting ceremony tonight and your usual ceremonial sword’s gone missing and this one hasn’t had a proper shine in ages.  You don’t have time for a bath, but I’ve got some hot water for a quick wash, and I’ve sent for George to replace me.”

Still rather stunned, Arthur swallows hard.  “Merlin.”  He tries to formulate a proper response, something that will hide how Merlin’s heat scent has suddenly turned Arthur’s knees into jelly.  Merlin watches him with a puzzled expression that slowly turns to embarrassment the longer Arthur is silent.  “Merlin, why don’t you let George do that?  You know how fond he is of polishing.”

Merlin ducks his head, the flush on his cheeks and the tips of his ears going deeper, and continues his work.  “I prefer to take care of your weapons myself.”

“Ah,” Arthur answers, rather stupidly.  They are treading dangerously close to bad innuendo, and he pulls off his gauntlets in a show of casual acceptance to cover his sudden interest in Merlin’s long-fingered hands and the flex of tendons in forearms revealed by his rolled-up sleeves.  He walks over to the table to set the gauntlets down, pressing them against the wood with his hand as he tries to process the sudden new directions his whirling mind is taking him.  

After a long moment of tense quiet, he turns back to Merlin.  “What do you...do?  When you forget?”

Merlin’s head shoots up.  “What?” he asks, strangled.

Arthur feels his face heat.  “I mean--do you go somewhere?  Do you have someone you…”

“No, sire,” Merlin says, huffing a nervous laugh.  “I take different herbs, to lessen the...severity, and I lock myself in my room.”

“So, you’ve never…”  

Merlin quickly shakes his head.  “Not in heat.”  

Arthur can feel a line of sweat slide down the back of his neck, and he swallows.  “I’ve never, either.  With...with someone in heat.  But I had instruction, when I hit puberty.  I mean, alpha royalty, we all get instruction.”  He bites the inside of his cheek to keep from blurting out anything else; as it is, Merlin is staring at him, boggled.

“Royalty are very strange.  No wonder you turned out such a prat,” Merlin offers, but the tease falls flat.  He’s stopped polishing now, the sword about to slide off his knees, the rag limp in his hand.

Arthur steps closer, pausing when Merlin’s back stiffens.  “Merlin, would you...I mean, if you _want_ to, we could…”

Sudden anger flashes across Merlin’s face.  “So you can try out your _instruction_ on me?”

“No, no!”  Arthur holds up his hands in a placating gesture, not sure how this went so wrong so quickly.  “I just…”  He pauses and takes a slow breath, holding Merlin’s eyes.  “You smell... _incredible_ , and you’re important to me, and I...I value your friendship.  I’d like to share your heat with you, if that’s something you would like, too.”

Merlin’s expression softens.  He stares at Arthur for an uncomfortably long pause, searching his face; he must find what he’s looking for, because the tense line of his shoulders eases.  “I’d like that very much, Arthur.  But you still have a knighting ceremony tonight, and someone has to run the kingdom for the next three days.”

His name in Merlin’s mouth makes more sweat break out under Arthur’s arms.  “I’ll inform Leon tonight that I’m not feeling well, he’ll handle everything.”

Slowly Merlin smiles, setting the sword and rag aside and getting to his feet.  “Oh, _you’re_ not feeling well?  And what will I be doing?”

“Tending me, of course,” Arthur says, swaying closer without really meaning to.  “You’re the Physician’s apprentice, after all.”

Merlin slides into his space, eyes warm.  “That I am,” he says softly.  “Also your devoted servant.”

“You can say no,” Arthur says quickly, his skin tingling under all his layers.  “It’s not an order, Merlin.”

“I don’t want to say no,” Merlin assures him, laying a hand on his chest, so lightly Arthur can barely even feel it through his mail.  “I don’t want to say no to anything.  But you have to get ready for the ceremony, and I need a little time to prepare.  There are some things I’ll need from Gaius, to prevent…”

Arthur covers Merlin’s hand with his, and this single touch of skin against skin is both shocking and reassuring at once.  “Yes,” he replies, “you’re right, of course.  We can have George fetch whatever you need.  And some food, things that won’t spoil, and a few pitchers of water and some wine.  He’ll make sure we’re not disturbed.”

This close up, Arthur can see the tiny wrinkle that forms between Merlin’s brows.  “He’ll smell me as soon as he walks in, he’ll guess what’s going on.”

Arthur leans in, close enough that their noses almost touch.  “George is much more discreet than you are, he won’t tell anyone.  And anyway, I’m the King, I can do what I like.”

“What about Gwen?” Merlin murmurs, pressing close even as he worries.  Arthur rests his free hand on Merlin’s waist, shaking his head very slightly.

“Things have...cooled off, between us.  Since Lancelot.”

Merlin drops his forehead against Arthur’s shoulder, a gust of breath shuddering out of him.  “I’m sorry, Arthur.”

Whether he’s sorry about Gwen or about Lancelot is unclear, but Arthur suspects both are mixed together in his words.  He presses his lips to Merlin’s ear in answer, barely a kiss, but Merlin trembles.  “Come on.  I need a wash and my formal cloak, and that sword you were working on.”

Merlin nods against his shoulder, then pulls back slowly as if it pains him.  It certainly pains Arthur, but George knocks on the door a moment later to chivvy him along, and the intimate mood is broken.

***

Arthur thought, while George and Merlin were dressing him and bustling him out the door, that the knighting ceremony would be interminable.  He usually quite likes knighting ceremonies; he takes great pleasure in rewarding men he’s trained for their hard work, and welcoming them into the fold.  There’s always a feast afterward, and the knights all get spectacularly drunk and often burst into song.  Tonight will be more somber, he expects--young Kay will be the first new knight since they lost Lancelot--but even such a loss as that can’t completely douse a festive mood.

Arthur expected to find the whole thing frustrating, knowing what would be coming after, but once he’s away from Merlin’s scent and the sight of his flushed, smiling face, he actually feels quite calm.  Just knowing Merlin is waiting safe in the royal chambers, perhaps in Arthur’s bed, is enough to bring him a sense of peace he doesn’t often feel.  He savors the pomp of the ceremony, thoroughly enjoys the food and wine and company that come after, and in the back of his mind he thinks about his manservant, his friend, more than a friend if he’s honest with himself.  Friends may share a heat from time to time, but with Merlin it feels like it could be something else, something more than convenience and comfortable intimacy.  It feels like that to Arthur, anyway, and he hopes that Merlin feels the same.

When he’s celebrated long enough that leaving won’t seem rude, he makes a plate of a few choice morsels, gives a slightly inebriated Sir Leon his little lie, and makes his way back to his chambers.  The door is locked when he arrives, so he fumbles out his key; when he manages to get it open, he’s enveloped by a stunning cloud of scent.  He breathes it in slowly, filling his lungs with it, tasting it on the back of his tongue.  The hair on his arms and the back of his neck stands up; the eagerness he thought would plague him all night rises now, making his hands tremble.  He locks the door behind him and makes his way further into the room.

The curtains around his bed are drawn, and Merlin’s clothes are folded in a neat pile, resting next to his boots beside Arthur’s wardrobe.  There’s food and wine on the table, and a jug of water beside the bed, and a fire’s crackling cheerfully in the hearth.  There isn’t even the slightest hint of sound from within the bedcurtains; either Merlin has fallen asleep, or is keeping shockingly still.

“I’ve brought you some treats from the feast,” Arthur says softly.  “Come help me with my armor, and we can eat them?”

The curtains twitch open and Merlin appears, wearing only his smalls, miles of flushed skin on display.  He hesitates, clutching the edge of the curtain’s brocade, looking about ten times as nervous as Arthur isn’t.  It suddenly occurs that Merlin might have been sitting here fretting, all this time, that Arthur would change his mind.

“Merlin,” he says, suffused with a sudden rush of affection, “do you still want--”

“Yes,” Merlin replies immediately, surging forward.  “Yes.  Do you…?”

“Very much so,” Arthur answers.  Everything seems so clear from this vantage, with Merlin standing close enough to touch but holding back, hopeful and open.  Then Merlin’s face shifts, his mouth curling into a smile, his shoulders relaxing, and he steps close into Arthur’s space to untie his cloak.

“Then by all means, let’s get this stuff off you.”

Arthur tips his chin up, swallowing against the brush of Merlin’s fingers at his throat.  “Hardly _stuff_ , Merlin.  This is the finest armor in the five kingdoms.”

“Thanks to my diligent work, yes,” Merlin says with a grin, slipping the cloak off and laying it over the back of a chair.  The vambraces follow, and the pauldron, and the mail, and the gambeson beneath; each piece and layer is removed and set aside with slow care, but the occasional tremor in Merlin’s hands or his shoulders belie his control.  It’s warm in the room, and Arthur can see, can smell the perspiration dewing up on Merlin’s skin.  Arthur is sweating too; it’s a relief to lift his arms and let Merlin peel the damp shirt from his back.  

Then Merlin crouches to see to Arthur’s boots, and that’s suddenly too much.  On any other day, Merlin is such a mouthy insubordinate that Arthur has no problem ordering him to do anything and everything, knowing only half of those orders will be obeyed--Merlin never does anything more or less than he’s willing to do--but to have a barely-dressed, heat-sodden omega bent low at his feet is entirely different and distinctly uncomfortable.

“Eat, drink some water,” he says, stepping back from Merlin’s reaching fingers.  “I’ll take care of the rest.”

Merlin looks up at him, _into_ him as if he’s reading his mind.  “Arthur,” he murmurs, and it sounds more like an honorific than any title Merlin has ever called him.

Arthur sits on the edge of his bed to shuck his boots and trousers while Merlin nibbles at the food.  He doesn’t appear to have much of an appetite, but when he comes to sit beside Arthur and pours himself a glass of water, he chugs it down so fast it’s a shock he doesn’t choke.  He pours himself another, then a third; when Arthur lays a hand on his arm, he sips that one more slowly.  “Thirsty,” Merlin sighs, though that’s perfectly obvious.

“I’m told that’s normal.”

Merlin nods, taking another sip with closed eyes.  The roll of his throat as he swallows is mesmerizing; Arthur leans close, tilts his head to press his lips there.  Merlin goes still.  When Arthur kisses his throat again, all the breath leaves him in a rush, and the glass thumps back onto the side table.

Merlin’s skin floods all of Arthur’s senses, and for a few moments he’s pulled under.  When he comes back to himself he’s in Merlin’s arms, tucked up skin to skin with his leg hooked over Merlin’s knee.  There’s a gentle hand combing through the hair on the back of his neck, and another pressed into the curve of his spine.  Arthur’s ear rests just below a sharp collarbone; he can hear the quick tattoo of Merlin’s heartbeat.

He is both reluctant to break Merlin’s tender hold and extremely eager for other parts of their bodies to be touching; at last he slowly uncurls, stretching his limbs out and pressing Merlin carefully down onto the mattress.  It’s wonderful to cover him with his superior weight, to shield him, to line their limbs up with nothing but their smalls still between them; beneath him, Merlin sighs and melts down into the sheets as if he thinks it’s wonderful too.  Then Merlin wraps his arms around him, drawing him down until they can’t possibly get any closer together, Arthur’s face tucked into the curve of Merlin’s shoulder and Merlin’s cheek pressed to Arthur’s hair.  They’re both hard, fitted together and radiating heat through their damp undergarments, and in unspoken agreement they carefully rock into each other.  It shouldn’t be enough--on a normal day, it wouldn’t be enough for Arthur, just this tidal, rolling motion and the frissions of pleasure it brings--but now it’s almost too much.  Every flex of muscle, every _shush_ of fabric is unbearably erotic.  If this is what a little rubbing feels like, how much more devastating will it be inside Merlin’s body?

He nearly comes just imagining it, and presses his teeth to the meat of Merlin’s shoulder to muffle a moan.  Merlin sucks in a sharp breath, his limbs spasming tighter around Arthur.  Delighted by this reaction, Arthur flexes his jaw, carefully increasing the pressure; Merlin moans in his ear, sharp and surprised, and a moment later damp heat is seeping through the front of Merlin’s smalls.

Arthur shudders, arousal flashing through him like the heat of a fire; he cants his hips back and reaches between them to feel the sticky wet of Merlin’s spend on the fabric, slides his fingers further down to feel where his natural slick is seeping through.

Merlin hums, back arching, and a moment later they’re wriggling out of their smalls and falling back to the bed tangled together as tight as the threads of a rope.


	2. Chapter 2

Merlin realizes his mistake too late.

The fire went out hours ago and it’s the quiet heart of night, dark in the chamber except for the glow of the moon through the windows.  It’s been at least two days, maybe more, and his heat is drawing away like a shifting tide, but he wants Arthur here with him for just a little longer.  They’ve been back to belly for most of this time; Merlin likes to be on his knees or on his side when he’s desperate, likes pushing back against an unyielding body.  Now that the drive is less urgent, he rolls Arthur over and presses him down into the pillows.  Arthur goes willingly, pliant and warm and solid, his hands firm on Merlin’s hips as he rides him.  Merlin stretches his back like a cat, spreads his thighs wide across Arthur’s lap; this feels luxurious, one last unhurried coupling before the heat is over, and he rocks in a languorous rhythm, spreading his hands on Arthur’s flushed and sweaty chest.

It’s a slow,  _ slow _ ascent.  Arthur is beautiful in the moonlight, his hair sex-mussed, his eyes tender, his reddened mouth open enough to show tiny glints of his crooked teeth.  Merlin has never loved anyone as he loves Arthur, never before wanted to crack himself open and offer up his throbbing heart and his lungs and all of his insides, all the hidden parts Arthur’s hands and kisses can’t reach.  

“I love you,” he says, and it rumbles through him like distant thunder.  

Arthur slow-blinks at him like a happy cat, his eyes shining in the dark.  “Merlin,” he breathes, and it’s enough of an answer.  Merlin sinks his weight down, his body slowly embracing Arthur’s knot, tightening around it in increments.  Arthur’s grip squeezes harder, his breath goes heavier, and like the rising sun breaking over the horizon he sighs and comes again.  His knot expands, not as intense as it was at the start, but pressing inside just where Merlin wants it, and Arthur’s hot release is filling him again, and Arthur’s face is so captivating, his pleasure so compelling that Merlin can’t tear his eyes away.  He’s caught, and safe, and loved.  He comes with a full-body shudder and a quiet moan.

His magic flares under his skin, burning up through his eyes.

Arthur is pushing him away before the glow has even faded, but they’re tied tight--there’s nowhere he can go. 

“What was that,” Arthur asks, and his voice is as cold and flat as a blade.

Merlin’s stomach drops so fast he feels sick.  “What was what?” he tries, knowing as it leaves his mouth that it’s the wrong thing to say.

Arthur’s eyes squeeze closed as if he’s in pain, and his jaw clenches.  “Don’t,” he warns, low and hoarse.

Merlin’s hands are still flat on Arthur’s chest, now bracing him up as he starts to tremble.  The words are always there in his throat, waiting; now they’re in his mouth, pressing up against the backs of his teeth, but he can’t bring himself to release them.  He opens his mouth, then closes it.  He swallows hard.  His eyes flood, spilling over when he blinks.  

“I can’t,” he manages to whisper, a wheeze, his lungs seized up tight.  Hurt and anger and fear chase each other across Arthur’s face.  Arthur just watches him, until Merlin wants to tear free and run, or disappear into a deep, dark hole and never come out.

Minutes, millennia later Arthur finally speaks.  “What are you afraid of?” he asks, bewildered and fierce.  “I should be afraid of  _ you _ , not the other way around.”

“No!” Merlin cries, and his chest shakes with it.  “No, Arthur, I would never, I would  _ never _ \--it’s for you.   _ I’m _ for you.  I would never hurt you.”

Arthur’s face twists.  “You think this doesn’t hurt me?” he asks, voice quiet, but the words hit Merlin like a sword blow.

It’s terrible, seeing in Arthur’s expression exactly what he’s done.  Exactly how badly he’s mucked this up.  Then he can’t see it anymore, because everything is blurred with tears, and Arthur’s hands pull away from Merlin’s hips.  Merlin draws his own hands away, giving Arthur what space he can; instead he presses them to his mouth, to keep back his sobbing.

Then Arthur’s hands are on Merlin’s face, instead.  With a trembling touch they wipe at his cheeks.  “Please stop crying,” Arthur says.  “That hurts me too.”  Merlin presses his hands harder to his mouth and nods, though his tears continue unabated.

At last Arthur’s tense frame relaxes just a fraction; he slides a hand to the back of Merlin’s neck and draws him down against his chest, tucks him into the curve of his shoulder.  “How long?” he asks, and there’s still an edge in his words.

“All my life,” Merlin whispers into his skin.  “Since I was born.  I think I was born for you.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Arthur rasps, and Merlin presses his face harder into Arthur’s shoulder.

“It’s how it feels,” he replies, “how it feels to me.”

“Gods, Merlin, you can’t just...you can’t just  _ say _ these things and expect me to--”

“I don’t expect anyth--”

“You’re not safe here!  You’ve never been safe here, and you’re breaking the law, and I can’t, you can’t stay.”  Arthur’s voice cracks in his throat.  “I can’t have you here.”

All around Merlin, the world is crumbling; there is only his skin against Arthur’s, and Arthur’s knot still locked inside him, and Arthur’s words tearing holes in his chest.  “I won’t go.  I have to protect you.”

“You have to do what I tell you to,” Arthur replies, his voice rising.  “Gods, Merlin, I need some time!  Just...can you give me that?  Some time, some space, to think about this? Go...visit your mother, I don’t care.  But you have to go.”

Merlin swallows hard around all the things he wants to say, the protests, the declarations of fealty and love.  He’s already made them, anyway, and he knows Arthur down to the bone.  His king is stubborn as a mule--can’t be forced, can’t be led, has to move forward of his own accord or not at all.

It might break Merlin to leave him, but it might break Arthur if he stays.  That’s no choice at all.  He releases a slow, trembling breath and sinks into the warmth of Arthur’s body, flexing a little to feel Arthur shift inside him.  “Tomorrow,” he relents, quiet and trembling.

Arthur’s arms circle around him.  “Tomorrow.”

***

Their tie subsides in the early morning, as the sun is creeping into the room through the edges of the window curtains.  Merlin is exhausted, and cried out; feeling raw and sore, he draws away from Arthur, and slowly begins to dress.

Arthur is silent, clearly troubled, but his face when Merlin turns that way is determinedly set.  They don’t speak as Merlin pulls on his boots, ties his neckerchief, covering whatever marks Arthur’s teeth may have left on him.  Finally Merlin stands awkwardly at the edge of the bed.  “My lord,” he murmurs, and Arthur’s eyes squint with discomfort.

“What will you tell Gaius?”

Merlin holds his gaze.  “That I’m going to visit my mother.”

“Will he believe that?” Arthur asks, and Merlin doesn’t reply.  Just because the king hasn’t ordered Merlin’s death doesn’t mean Gaius is safe--the less said about him, the better.  Arthur is canny though, and gives a tiny nod--a reassurance, Merlin thinks.  “And is that where you’ll really go?”

“Probably best if I don’t tell you,” Merlin replies.  The implication makes Arthur flinch, and the reaction is both painful and darkly satisfying.

“Very well,” Arthur says, cold seeping into his voice again; it’s clearly a dismissal.

Merlin has never taken dismissal well.  His hands curl into anxious fists.  “I do love you, Arthur,” he says, throat constricting around the words.  “If you think me a liar, at least believe that.  I love you.”

Arthur looks away.  “Take Llamrei with you,” he says, “she likes you best anyway.”  Then he turns away from Merlin, as though it’s any other morning, and that’s that.

Somehow, Merlin makes himself leave the room; he doesn’t look back.

***

He almost changes his mind a hundred times; to leave Arthur now will place him at Morgana’s mercy, though only Merlin and Gaius know it.  He could hide in the woods, he could disguise himself, he could find a spell to make him invisible.

In the end though, all of these plans end in exhaustion, or capture, or death, and all of them are a further betrayal of Arthur’s wishes.  

“I’m going to find the Druids,” he tells a worried Gaius as he packs.  “Find out more about this Emrys thing.  Learn more magic.  If I can’t be here guarding Arthur all the time, I should be preparing myself to come back when magic is needed.”

“I’ll watch out for him as best I can,” Gaius says, wringing his hands in between tucking food and medical supplies into Merlin’s pack.

Merlin pauses, takes in his mentor’s wet-eyed expression.  He wraps the old man in an embrace, trying not to feel how frail he seems under his robes.  “Be careful,” he urges.  “If Arthur lets slip to anyone about why I’ve really gone, it’ll be Agravaine.  He’s already proven a danger to you.  If we just had a way for you to send me a message--”

Gaius pats his back reassuringly.  “I sent my share of messages by bird in the days before the Purge.  I’m sure I can manage it again.”

Merlin pulls back.  “ _ Promise  _ me,” he insists.  “Promise you’ll send for me if there’s any trouble.”

“I promise, my boy.  But  _ you _ must promise  _ me _ not to put yourself in more danger, or get in over your head.”

He almost smiles at that.  “I’ll try my best.”  It’s not precisely a promise, and Gaius’ eyebrow ticks up a notch, but he doesn’t press.

Gaius walks with him to the stables, and they load up Llamrei in the yard together.  The mare clearly senses the somber mood, because she holds diligently still until they’re finished, then pushes her head gently into Merlin’s chest.  “Say goodbye to your lovely stall,” he murmurs to her, and she flicks an ear toward him.  “It’s the last you’ll see of it for a while, I’m afraid.”  Merlin himself hasn’t spoken to anyone but Gaius--better to slip out unnoticed, as he so often has before, than risk arousing suspicions with drawn-out farewells.

Gaius lays a hand on his shoulder and squeezes.  “I’ll give Guinevere and the knights your best,” he says, reading Merlin’s mind.  

Merlin nods.  “Tell them I didn’t want to give Arthur time to change his mind about granting me leave,” he jokes, but it falls flat.  This is the moment; there’s nothing left to say or do but mount Llamrei and be on his way, and so, heart as heavy as a stone in his chest, he does.

This time he does look back, as he rides out of sight of the stableyard; the morning bustle of the Citadel is the same as any other day, except for Gaius, standing slumped and still, watching him go.

***

It doesn’t much matter that Merlin doesn’t know where to find the Druids, precisely; they find him instead.  Iseldir bows his head, and calls him Emrys, and installs him in his own tent in their camp.  He learns their ways day by day; they are patient, reverent, and oddly soft with him.  

After vomiting six mornings in a row the week before his next heat is due, he finally realizes why.

***

Merlin’s belly grows, and so does his magic; Iseldir, an omega himself, teaches Merlin meditation to keep his power under control.  The camp midwife, an ancient woman called Branwen, makes him potions and teas and compresses, and sends her young apprentice out into the forest to gather herbs for his food.  He’s painfully homesick for Gaius and for his mother, but afraid to worry them or implicate them with magicked messages, or give his own position away.

It’s Finna who finally teaches him to send notes with birds.  She arrives in the camp two months into Merlin’s exile bearing Alator’s greetings, and quickly makes herself his constant companion; Merlin is pathetically grateful for her brisk kindness and her matter-of-fact loyalty, less uncomfortable than the sometimes distressing devotion of others in the camp.  She’s a beta with no children of her own, he knows, but she’s perhaps his mother’s age and has strong magic, and her presence is a comfort.

She and Alator communicate via crows and ravens--they, he learns, are the easiest to train and take to magic more quickly than other birds.  They’re also large, noisy, and often regarded with suspicion, so Merlin instead turns his magic to sparrows instead.  He finds his power is enough to guide them short distances, so writes a carefully bland letter to his mother and a short, coded note to Gaius and sends them off with high hopes.

One returns with a few loving words from his mother tucked into a tiny pouch, and he strings the pouch around his neck to keep it close.  The other brings a longer letter from Gaius congratulating him on the success of his spellwork and assuring him that message via sparrow is as safe as they could hope for.

Merlin and Gaius correspond often, after that; Merlin avoids mentioning his condition, and instead fills his letters with new things he’s learned or stories of the people in the camp.  Gaius writes back about how solemn the castle seems now, how he suspects Arthur doesn’t sleep well, how the guards sometimes mention seeing him standing on the battlements in the middle of the night.  

In a missive later on, Gaius reports his suspicions confirmed.  He tells how Arthur, pacing restlessly at night, spotted Agravaine riding out of the castle and followed; traitor revealed, he was arrested, then slain trying to escape.  

At first it’s a relief, one of Merlin’s largest worries eased.  Then it’s awful, to think of how Arthur must be hurting from this new betrayal, how alone he must feel.  How far away Merlin is, unable to offer any comfort or aid.  It preys on him, disturbs his sleep for days, until he can’t stand it anymore.

Heartsick and determined, he coaxes a falcon from the sky.  With gentle magic he draws it down to the pole of his tent, then after some improvisation, to his blanket-wrapped arm.  He feeds it bits of meat and strokes its spotted breast.  It’s a pleasant-looking bird, to Merlin’s uneducated eye, quite small, but otherwise similar to some of the hunting hawks in Camelot’s mews.  Satisfied, he unwinds the frayed red neckerchief from his throat, ties it into a bundle around the bird’s neck, and murmurs a spell.

When he tosses his arm up, the falcon takes off like a shot toward Camelot.

It never returns; Merlin hopes that means the message was received.

***

“How are you feeling this morning?” Finna asks him, and Merlin rubs his belly reflexively.

“My magic feels a little strange,” he admits, “sort of...fizzy.”  He doesn’t say that he’s been feeling restless, as well, and the false contractions of the last few days have put him on edge.  Finna nods, as though she hears his whole answer anyway, and it has great meaning.

The meaning is clear when his labor sets in that afternoon; thankfully she’s had his tent already prepared for the birth, and brought in the camp midwife, and chased away the anxious hangers-about wanting to attend to Emrys in his moment of need.  She helps him walk about, or squat, or lay curled around his contracting abdomen, and holds his hands tightly as he groans through the pain.

It’s like nothing he’s ever felt before; not necessarily the worst pain of his life, but the strangest, the most visceral and unyielding.  He can’t stop it or soothe it, he must travel through it and let it work him over.  He pulls away into his mind, instead, focusing on each moment as it happens, not even able to think of Arthur unaware back in Camelot or his child about to enter the world.  He lets the comforting voices around him keep him tethered, riding the pain like a boat on the ocean, vocalizing every animal sound that squeezes from his lungs.

It rises and rises, until he knows nothing else, has no sense of a time before or a future after.  A woman’s voice gives commands in his ear; hands press his legs as wide as they can go, wider, and his body feels entirely out of his conscious control.  He is straining, screaming,  _ burning _ \--

There is a wail, and the sound yanks at every instinct he has.  He’s reaching out before he even understands what he’s reaching out  _ for _ , and a tiny, shrieking, squirming body is laid against his chest.  There is a red and screwed-up face, angry waving fists, fine fair hair slicked with fluids and blood.  There are other hands, wiping, wrapping, and more between his legs, but the pain there is distant.

The baby quiets long enough to suck in a breath, and its eyes open; they are blue as an autumn sky.


	3. Chapter 3

The day Arthur decides to lift the ban begins like any other.  He trains with the knights, drills them hard to work off their peacetime restlessness.  Gwaine in particular seems itching for a challenge, or perhaps just itching, as always these past few years, to take out some aggression on Arthur.  Arthur doesn’t rise to the bait.  He pretends not to know why their friendship soured, and lets Gwaine get an occasional hit in, and all but a few of the knights think it’s nothing more than a clash of alpha personalities.  If Arthur’s honest with himself, he’s surprised Gwaine is still here and wearing Camelot red.

He holds audiences, some of which are mundane complaints that he can satisfyingly solve, one of which is a disturbing report from the north of all the able-bodied young men disappearing.  It smacks of slavers, and a glance to his right confirms that Leon thinks the same.  He sends the tradesman who brought the news away with a pocketfull of coins as reward, and hears the rest of the morning’s petitions with a carefully casual air. 

At last everyone waiting has been heard and satisfied, and Arthur turns to his First Knight.

“I’ve a mind to go hunting before the weather turns any colder,” he says, and Leon looks out the window, considering the sky.

“A fine day for it, sire.  Shall I arrange a party to accompany you?”

“Just Sir Percival and Sir Elyan, I think.  Have them meet me in the stables in half an hour, and get a groom to ready Hengroen.”

“Yes, sire,” Leon says with a placid nod, and Arthur knows his message has been received.

Years ago, when he was newly king, he might have said his thoughts outright for anyone in the throne room to hear.  He would have seen no need for coded double talk.  He is more careful, since Agravaine.  Since...well.  Arthur has tried not to let his reign sink into a mire of suspicion and secrecy and quiet plotting, he doesn’t want to be that man, that king.  He doesn’t want to be his father.  Still, trust is harder to extend than it used to be, and he’s forever in his armor--mail and plate, and the more invisible sort around his heart.

Animals, on the other hand, are much easier to predict than people.  Their loyalties are simple, straightforward, hinged on food and respectful care.  Arthur goes to the mews by way of the kitchens, and arrives prepared with morsels of raw meat in a pouch at his belt.  The falconer’s not there, which is just as well; he’s been master of the mews since before Arthur was born, and didn’t warm to Arthur’s sudden frequent presence, flagrant disregard of falconry’s general rules, and quite strange and particular bird.

In truth, hunting hawks never held any interest for Arthur; a man of action, he always preferred a crossbow in his hands, sighting his prey and taking it down himself, perhaps with a few hounds scouting out ahead to flush game from the undergrowth.  Three years ago his proclivities shifted when a falcon, small and mottled brown and cream and burdened with a bundle of red cloth, came shooting out of the forest and straight to Arthur on the training field, thudding in for a landing on his (thankfully mailed) shoulder as if it had never known such a perfect perch.

While Arthur stood frozen and stunned, the bird shifted from foot to foot, then screamed rather obnoxiously in his ear.  Around him the knights all went still as well, baffled, certainly wondering (as Arthur was) if the creature was about to bite off some portion of his face.  

“Put out your hand, sire,” Leon finally murmured, and slowly Arthur sheathed his practice sword and raised his arm aloft.  In small, precise hops accompanied by much waving of checkerboard-patterned wings, the bird traveled down his offered appendage to his hand, and settled there with a careful grip of its talons.  Arthur and the falcon watched each other for a stretched, tense moment; then, abruptly disinterested, the bird fluffed up its feathers and twisted its neck around to preen.

Arthur released a slow breath and, as the falcon plucked at the frayed red fabric around its neck, slowly reached out his other hand to free it.  He knew without unraveling it precisely what it was; some of the knights knew as well, he could sense, feeling their eyes on him.  He tucked the scrap into his belt.

“Carry on with that drill,” he told them, still not taking his eyes off the falcon.  “I suppose I’m off to the Royal Mews.”

Ashe, the falconer, was quite surprised by the tale.  “Very unusual,” was his baffled pronouncement, “but a fine-looking bird.  A female merlin, if I’m not mistaken.”  His voice suggested that he felt certain he was not, in fact, mistaken.

“And is there space to keep her?”

“Yes, sire,” Ashe replied, a note of hesitation in his voice.  “I suppose it could be trained up nicely for a future Queen.”

“I was thinking I’d fly her myself,” Arthur mused, gaze still fixed on the falcon.  She remained quite calm and steady on his hand, talons just barely pricking at his skin through his glove.

Ashe blew out a breath suspiciously like a laugh.  “Forgive me sire, but it won’t be much good with the sort of game you’re used to.  It’s a ladyhawk, not a very kingly sort of bird.”

“I should think that any bird the king chooses to fly is very much a kingly bird,” Arthur said mildly, and proceeded down the length of the mews to find an open perch with Ashe spluttering behind him.  He found one at the far end in a stall that looked unused, and held his hand beside it.  “Here you are,” he told the falcon, and she stared at him for a moment, head tilting this way and that, before stepping off his glove and settling onto the wood.

It’s this stall Arthur goes to now, and finds the bird asleep with her head tucked beneath a wing.  “Hello, falcon,” he murmurs, and she languidly unfolds herself with a shake of her feathers.  Arthur offers her a morsel of meat from his pouch, and though she takes it delicately from his hand, she then immediately gulps it down whole.  He gives her another, smiling at her appetite.  Ashe grumbled for some time that Arthur fed her too much, that she had to be hungry to fly for him, and that may be true for other birds--but this one is special, Arthur knows, in ways he tries not to think about too hard.  She flies as high and far as she wishes, catches whatever game appeals, and always returns at his whistle.  He has resisted the temptation to name her, as well; only one name suits, and he can’t bear to speak it.  

When she’s eaten her fill he holds out his hand, and she hops lightly onto his glove.  It’s reinforced against her talons now, as a precaution, but she’s never intentionally hurt him.  That’s another message he takes to heart; it sits heavy in his chest.  “Ready to fly?” he asks as they stride from the mews and across the yard to the stables.  The falcon stretches her wings out, waving them as she climbs up to Arthur’s shoulder.

Elyan and Percival are already astride their horses, loaded with packs rather too large for just an afternoon’s hunting.  The head stable hand is standing by with Hengroen, either taking no notice of the loaded packs or pretending to.  Either way, Tyr is a kind soul and a loyal one, so far as Arthur can tell, and he sees their little party off with a respectful nod followed by a jolly wave.

They ride quite companionably through the lower town and out into the autumn woods, the usual conversational range of teasing, complaints, and embellished tales of their own and others’ exploits carrying them several hours to the north.  The falcon ranges from Arthur’s shoulder, disappearing for long chunks of time and reappearing with barely a sound.

“We’d have to turn around soon to return by nightfall,” Elyan observes at last, peering at the sky through the cover of trees.  

“Yes, and I’ll be doing so,” Arthur replies.  “But I need the two of you to continue on.”

“Looking for slavers,” Percival states, forthright as ever, and Arthur nods.

“See how far the disappearances have spread, find out what you can about where and how they might be operating.  But  _ don’t _ ,” he says, pointing at them, “engage.  This is a scouting mission only.”

“I don’t think we’ll have to scout very far after all,” Elyan says, and points when they both turn to him.

A small clearing in the trees has come into view ahead, strewn with fallen leaves and other forest detritus; lying dead center, neatly tied, Arthur can see a brace of hares.  They’re too centered to have simply been dropped by a careless hunter, and when he studies the ground and the surrounding trees, he can see the trap taking shape.  “A net.”

“Big enough to hold a man, I’d say,” Elyan murmurs.

Percival points.  “Look there, that tree what looks tilted over?  That’s the counterweight.  And those coneys’re laid right on the trigger mechanism.”

Arthur frowns.  “To tempt someone too inexperienced, or too hungry, to be suspicious of the setup.”  It turns his stomach to imagine some starving peasant, or a child even, a Camelot citizen, spotting the hares and thinking it a good day’s luck, then finding themselves kidnapped and sold into slavery in some other land.

“They’ll have to come back to check it; we can find cover and wait them out,” Elyan suggests.  “Take the horses a good distance off, come back on foot.”

It’s a solid plan, and they put it into action quickly; aware he ought to turn back soon but anxious to see this through, Arthur crouches in the brush at the edge of the clearing with Percival to his left watching their backs and Elyan on his right, eyes trained on the trap.  “We ought to set it off ourselves,” Elyan murmurs after a few minutes of waiting.  “That way someone, probably more than one, will have to come out into the open to reset it.

“Need something heavy for that.  A stone,” Percival suggests, casting about for something nearby.

“Or a sword,” Elyan suggests.  “We’ll just untangle it, and leave the net hanging empty.”

But before they can do either, a distant crunch of footsteps reaches them from the other side of the glade.  The knights fall still and silent on either side of Arthur, and he trains his eyes on the treeline; as the crunching gets louder, he identifies at least four sets of steps, and a low murmur of speech.

“It was over this way,” comes one of the voices.

“ _ This _ way, you clot,” argues another.

“Shut your gobs,” snaps a third, “you’re both wrong.”

The bickering rises as they approach, close enough that they’ll surely be visible through the trees any moment.  Arthur’s hand slides around the hilt of his sword; four slavers will be easy enough for the three of them to capture, no matter what he said to the knights about not engaging.

Then, fast as a bolt of lightning, a small brown body streaks down from the sky and thuds, talons first, into the bait hares.

The net springs up instantaneously, dead leaves flying in every direction; the falcon screeches, startled and caught, and flaps her wings desperately in the tangle of rope.

“ _ Shit _ ,” Arthur hisses, flinching forward, and at that moment the four slavers break through the trees and emerge into the clearing.

They stare at the net as the falcon struggles and shrieks, then one of them, a lanky, hooded fellow, turns to the others and gestures accusingly.  “You see?  A bloody  _ bird. _  I told you we set this one too deep in the woods, we need to move it closer to the village.”

“What a shame,” drawls another one in a northern lilt, his hair and beard streaked with gray, “that I couldn’t care less about your opinion.”  The bearing of this man tells Arthur he’s the leader--or at least the most high-ranking in this group--and the grin on his face makes Arthur’s blood boil.  “At least we’ll have some meat for supper.  Get it out of there and kill it.  But  _ don’t damage the net _ ,” he orders.

Arthur’s chest clenches and his vision goes red; he bursts into the open with a shout, Percival and Elyan following just a beat after, and the clearing explodes into violence.  

It’s fast and frantic, the writhing of the falcon a distracting motion, and Arthur’s engaged one on one with the leader when he realizes he’s lost track of one of the slavers.  A human cry of pain followed by a string of curses and more screeching clues him in.  With a swift feint and turn he knocks the sword from the leader’s hand and spins to the net; the hooded man is drawing his own sword with a bleeding hand, grimace fixed on the downed net and the trapped animal within.  The sword comes up, and Arthur darts forward, desperate, knowing he’s too far away--

_ “STOP!” _

The shout seems to reverberate through the clearing with tangible power; it rushes over Arthur like a blast of air, nearly knocking him off his feet.  Before him, the hooded slaver drops like a stone to the ground, out cold, and when he looks around, Elyan and Percival are staring at their felled enemies in similar confusion.

Then a figure strides into the glade, hand outstretched.  He is young, pale, with a shock of dark curls on his head, and there is fading gold in his eyes. 

Arthur’s breath catches in his throat.  For the barest moment--but no.  This man is a stranger, wrapped up in fabric and fur, and his face is hard as he approaches.  He stops a yard away, and icy eyes flick from the falcon, gone still and exhausted in the net, to Arthur and back again.  “That bird,” he says.  “It’s a familiar.”

“I don’t know what that means,” Arthur replies, slowly stepping toward the net without taking his eyes off the stranger.  He crouches, carefully cuts into the ropes with his sword.  The moment she’s free, the falcon makes her way up to Arthur’s shoulder, and the stranger’s eyes narrow.

“It means she belongs to someone with magic.”

“She belongs to me,” Arthur replies, straightening.  

The stranger smiles then, small and more than a bit creepy.  “Rumor said he had given up on you,” he murmurs, “but I see that’s not quite true.”

“You seem to know me,” Arthur ventures, and out of the corner of his eye he can see the silent bulk of Percival creeping closer behind the stranger.  “But I don’t know you.”

“Oh, you do, Arthur Pendragon,” he says, stepping closer, that strange smile still on his face.  “You saved me from execution once, when I was just a boy.  Don’t you remember?”

Up close, the stranger’s eyes are huge and frozen blue; his gaze is unnerving, and the sensation tugs at Arthur’s memory.  “Mordred,” he says at last, and the man’s smile intensifies.  Then the butt of Percival’s sword comes down on the stranger’s head, and he crumbles to the leaf-strewn ground.

***

It’s a problem, what to do with Mordred.  He used sorcery in full view of Percival and Elyan, not to mention the King of Camelot, but Arthur has managed to avoid executing anyone for sorcery these last three years and would like that trend to continue.  

Not to mention, Mordred’s sorcery saved Arthur’s falcon, possibly Arthur’s own life, repaying any debt he might feel for Arthur’s help when he was a boy.  But what was he doing walking in the middle of the woods if not traveling with the slavers?  The slavers whose necks, they discover, are all broken from the force of Mordred’s spell.  The last Arthur knew, Mordred was a Druid, and the Druids are supposedly a peaceful people, but peaceful sorcerers don’t break men’s necks with a single word.

Or perhaps they do.  Arthur has only known one peaceful sorcerer, and he sent him away without allowing many explanations.

They could hold Mordred prisoner, bring him back to Camelot for justice.  Or could they?  He’s clearly powerful, and they have no cold iron; if Mordred wished to escape, it would be simple.

Arthur voices some of this to his knights and keeps some to himself, and in the end they decide to turn back toward Camelot with Mordred draped unconscious over the back of Elyan’s horse, hopeful that when he wakes he won’t kill them all as well, and might be able to tell them how large the slavers’ operation is and where their prisoners are kept.

The falcon, done in by her misadventure, tucks her head in and goes to sleep on Arthur’s shoulder as they ride.  The familiar pressure of her talons is comforting.

At last, within an hour’s ride of Camelot, Mordred wakes.

***

When he first begins to stir they halt, propping their prisoner/guest up against a tree and standing around him with hands on sword hilts.  Arthur hates how weak a threat his sword is in this situation, but can’t bring himself to relax, either.  As Mordred’s eyes open he takes in this scene, the low light of the sky above, the bird still asleep on Arthur’s shoulder, then fixes his intense gaze on Arthur.  “We’re traveling south.”

“Toward Camelot castle,” Arthur confirms.

“To burn me for sorcery?” Mordred asks lightly, and Arthur fights back a flinch.

“No,” he says, and he can feel Percival and Elyan’s eyes on him.  “To learn what you know about the slavers.”

Mordred’s mouth ticks up in a smirk.  “Ah.  And  _ then _ burn me for sorcery.”

Arthur lets a little bit of honesty, but none of his quiet feelings on the topic, show on his face.  “If you do no harm to us, we’ll do no harm to you,” he states, and sees at last a flicker of emotion in the young man’s expression.

“So the King can make exceptions to his own laws, then.”

At last Arthur releases the hilt of his sword and straightens; Mordred gets carefully to his feet, and when Percival and Elyan close ranks, Arthur raises a hand to hold them.  “The King may decide which laws are his own, and which he no longer deems necessary or just.”

Elyan makes a soft, shocked noise at that; Percival is utterly silent.  Mordred cocks his head, like Arthur is a puzzle he just can’t figure out.  “And will he?

“That remains to be seen.”

There is a stalemate for a long moment then, as Arthur holds Mordred’s stare; at last, as one, they each relax just a fraction.  “You are not as much changed as I was led to believe, Arthur Pendragon.  Still a rescuer of young Druids.”

“You, on the other hand, are quite different to the last time we met.”

“I’ve had a difficult path,” Mordred murmurs, still wary.

Arthur shrugs.  “I was going to say taller.”  This startles a laugh out of Mordred, and it changes his entire face; the coldness seems suddenly gone from it, and some measure of calm comes over him.  Arthur ventures the smallest of smiles, and holds out his hand.  “Come with us to Camelot.  You can tell us a bit of your story along the way.”

“Sire…” Percival says at last, hesitant, but Arthur doesn’t look away or retract his arm; at length Mordred takes it.

“Very well.  To Camelot.”


	4. Chapter 4

Leon finds him taking supper alone in his chambers with the latest patrol reports spread across the table.  Arthur gestures him in, eager for any reason to take a break; peaceful reports are the most dull to read.

“Sire, Sir Mordred has returned,” Leon tells him, and Arthur straightens.

“When?”

“Just moments ago.”

Arthur nods.  “Send him here to give his report as soon as he’s able.”

“Yes, sire,” Leon replies with a nod, and strides out, closing the door behind him.

Arthur gathers up his scattered papers and shoves away his mostly untouched dinner; when this only takes up a few minutes of time, he stands and paces to the window.  

It was easier than he’d ever imagined to lift the ban on magic; horrifyingly easy, in fact.  One or two of his father’s men on the Council fought him on it, but they quickly bent to his will.  It was both frightening to realize how easily the King’s opinion could drastically change, for better or worse, the lives of the people, and sickening to think that he’d been waiting, watching, thinking, debating within himself about it for so long when all he had to do was declare what he wanted and it would happen.  Now he has Gaius for his magical advisor, the old man’s countenance much lightened by this new freedom, and a magical knight in Mordred.  There is quiet magic all over the castle and the lower town, these days; with winter upon them, there are murmured spells to make fires burn hotter and longer, to make blankets warmer, to coax food to stay fresh just a little bit longer.

It’s wonderful, and yet the one Arthur most wants to share it with hasn’t yet reappeared.  Even Gaius seems unsure of where precisely he is, though he admits to having been in occasional contact over the years.  Arthur wonders if perhaps his gesture is too little too late; if he’ll never be forgiven for taking so long to do the right thing.  The thought makes him want to do still more, be still better; all he can do is press on and improve the lives of his people, and he hopes Mordred will bring him a positive response to his latest effort.

There’s a lazy, cursory knock before the door opens again.  Arthur whirls, anxious, but it’s only Gwaine strolling in as though he’s been invited and craning his neck around.

“I heard Mordred’s back.”

Arthur sighs.  “Good evening, Sir Gwaine, please do come in and make yourself at home.”

Gwaine smirks and slouches into a chair, flinging his hair over his shoulder.  “Why thanks, I think I will.  Are you done eating this?”  Without waiting for an answer, Gwaine pulls Arthur’s abandoned plate over and immediately stuffs a bit of cheese in his mouth.

“Honestly, Gwaine, it’s a very good thing  _ you’re _ not the one going on any diplomatic missions.”

“I’m the brawn,” he says around his mouthful.  “Diplomacy is for the brains.”

Arthur is saved from responding by a quiet rap on the door.  “Enter.”

“Sire,” Mordred says, ducking his head as he comes in.  Leon follows, and closes the door behind them.

“Sit,” Arthur gestures, “have some food, if you can get the plate away from Gwaine.”

Mordred huffs a laugh and takes the offer of a seat, a weary cast to his shoulders.  “I ate on the road.  Iseldir sent me home with a full pack.” 

“You made contact, then?” Arthur asks, leaning forward on the table.

“Yes, sire.”  The young knight smiles, and something loosens in Arthur’s chest.  “They are quite willing to treat with Camelot.  They’re sending a representative, he’ll arrive in three days.”

Leon claps Mordred on the shoulder.  “Fantastic!  Well done, Mordred.”

“This calls for a celebration,” Gwaine crows, reaching for Arthur’s jug of wine.  Arthur neatly plucks it out of his hand, but he’s smiling as well.

“Everything is cause for celebration with you.”  Then he turns to Mordred again, and finds him looking pleased, an odd crooked grin on his face.  “Who is this representative going to be?  Someone you met?”

“I didn’t see him in the camp, he was in heat seclusion when I arrived.  But I know him,” Mordred confirms with a small nod.  “Among the Druids he’s called Emrys, and held in very high esteem.”

“That’s excellent news.  I’ll have George make the guest chambers ready for him,” Arthur replies, straightening.  “It’s a good sign, them sending someone important.”

Mordred looks down for a moment, his grin widening.  “I was told he’ll be bringing along a child, as well.”

“That’s a little odd,” Leon muses.  “I thought you said Druids raised their children communally.  Why would he bring a child all the way here alone?”

“I’m sure he has his reasons,” Mordred replies, but now that his news is delivered, it’s clear he’s about ready to fall asleep where he sits.

“All right, not something we need to worry about tonight.  Go get some rest.  And  _ you _ ,” Arthur adds, pointing to Gwaine, “no celebratory drinking until after we’ve signed a treaty with this Emrys fellow.”

Gwaine rises from his chair with a jaunty salute, and in a quietly jolly group the three knights file out, leaving Arthur to his thoughts.

The next morning finds Arthur in the office of the castle seneschal.  “My lady,” he greets her.

Guinevere smiles and sighs.  “Your Highness.  What new problem are you about to spring on me?”

“Oh, nothing much,” Arthur replies with a satisfied grin.  “Just an ambassador from the Druids.”

“Arthur, that’s fantastic!  We’ll have to have a welcome feast.  When will he arrive?”  Gwen is already scratching out notes on a scrap of paper.

“In three--well, no, now two days.”

The quill stops abruptly.  “ _ Two days? _ ” Gwen repeats in a rather dangerous low tone, and her nostrils are flaring in that way that means Arthur ought to take his leave.

“I have complete faith in you,” Arthur tells her as he backs toward the door.  “Oh, and he’s bringing a child along, perhaps you could arrange for someone to keep it entertained during the negotiations.”

Gwen’s aggravated sigh follows him out into the hall.

***

Two days pass like water through the fingers when every moment of them is filled with frantic preparation.  Arthur meets with the Council, and the Round Table, and with Gaius and Mordred; he reads (or rereads) all of the information Geoffrey of Monmouth can unearth from the library on the Druids; he writes out endless drafts of what he’d like a treaty with the Druids to be, all of which will certainly be scrapped once he and Emrys have actually spoken, anyway.

At last, on the afternoon Emrys is due to arrive, Arthur finds a moment of peace to spend in the mews.  He feeds the falcon, strokes her dark head and the mottled brown-and-white of her breast while she preens.  The scrap of red cloth she once carried is tied around Arthur’s arm under his gambeson, as it always is, and he flexes his bicep a bit to feel it press into his skin.  

“I never should have sent him away,” he murmurs to her, and she pauses in her preening to fix an eye on him.  “This is all too little too late.  But I hope he hears the news, wherever he is, that Camelot and magic are coming to peace.”

The falcon makes a quiet cry and nips softly at his fingers, then turns back to her task.  

Then the mews door creaks open.  “I thought I might find you here, sire,” comes a voice, and Arthur turns to where Gaius stands with hands folded together.  “The scouts on the road report that Emrys approaches.”

“We’d best go and greet him, then.”  Arthur gives the falcon a final stroke before drawing up beside Gaius, and they walk together back to the main courtyard.

Gaius is silent for a few minutes, then clears his throat.  “Arthur,” he says at last, “I want you to know that I’m very proud of you.  It can’t have been easy, overturning what your father taught you.”

Arthur glances at him, surprised.  “Thank you, Gaius.  That means a great deal.  I only wish I’d understood sooner how wrong my father was.”

“He was heartbroken, my boy,” Gaius replies, an old sadness in his words.  “Heartbroken, and angry, and rash.  He made a reactionary choice in the heat of the moment, and could never bring himself to consider it objectively.  You are much more like your mother, she was always deliberate and thoughtful, she considered all angles to a problem.  She would have been very proud of you today, as well.”

Arthur blinks hard against the sudden stinging of tears behind his eyes as they cross the courtyard to the stairs.  “I hope so.”

“All will be well, Arthur,” Gaius assures him with a comforting pat.  “You’ll see.”

Arthur just nods, not trusting himself to speak again just yet; just takes his place in the center of the greeting party that has already gathered.  Leon and Elyan and Mordred flank him on one side, Percival and Gwaine on the other; some of the Council are there, and Guinevere with an especially prim-looking George, and there are knights and servants alike scattered across the yard clearly hoping to get a peek at the visitor.  He hopes the man won’t be overwhelmed by the castle’s intense curiosity.

Then one of the gate guards strides into sight at the far end, and behind him comes a robed and hooded figure.  Emrys.

He is tall, Arthur can see from here, and broad-shouldered, but his dark blue robes are too voluminous to show much else; tucked against his shoulder is a small child in forest green, limbs lax in sleep.  The man’s hands are large and pale where he cradles the babe, his hood so deep that his face is in shadow.  His stride is long, and has a loping quality to it that somehow puts Arthur at ease despite the air of mystery--as if beneath his shroud, this Emrys is just a man and a mother, as human as anyone else.

Then a breeze picks up at the man’s back, blowing his scent across the cobbles.  It carries the faintest lingering traces of heat, an odor like bare earth after a rainfall.  Arthur knows that scent.  It pierces his chest like an arrow, straight to his heart, and he’s stumbling forward before anyone can stop him, before he can stop himself.

The man’s pace quickens and they nearly collide in the middle, stopping just inches short of each other.  “Arthur,” comes a quiet voice from within the hood.

Arthur reaches out, lifts the hood away with a trembling hand.  Merlin, older and scruffily bearded, gives him a nervous, watery smile.

The world goes quiet around him, quiet except for the thudding of his heart.  He knows his mouth has fallen open like a dunce, but he can’t manage to close it, or make any sound come out.  He just breathes in, tasting that familiar scent on his tongue, and cups his hand to Merlin’s face.

Merlin can’t seem to say anything else either; he sways a fraction closer, and the child asleep on his shoulder shifts, snuffles, turns a tiny pale face toward them.  It’s impossible to look away from Merlin, and yet Arthur must look at this child, a fair face framed with wisps of blonde hair, nose already a clear throwback to the Pendragon’s Roman ancestors, just as Arthur’s is, a soft, milky scent that rouses every instinct Arthur never knew he had.  He lets out a slow breath, leans in to press his forehead to Merlin’s, and the tears he’d hid from Gaius now well up and spill silently over his cheeks.

“I called her Peregrine,” Merlin murmurs, sounding as trembly as Arthur feels, and Arthur finds his voice at last.

“That’s a ridiculous name.”

Merlin laughs, and it feels like a biological imperative for Arthur to press his mouth to Merlin’s to catch the sound, to press their faces together as if he could inhale them both into his body and hold them there.

They break just barely apart a moment later at the hoots and whistles coming from the assembled crowd at Arthur’s back.  He can hear Mordred’s knowing laughter and Gwaine’s catcalling--”That’s diplomacy at its finest!”--and a happy sob that sounds suspiciously like Guinevere.  Then Merlin nestles himself and the child in against Arthur’s side and turns him around.

“Greetings, people of Camelot!” he calls with an ear-to-ear grin.  “I bring you peaceful tidings from the Druids and the hope of a united future!”

The courtyard erupts into cheering and applause.  Moments later Merlin (and Arthur by proximity) are beset with hugs and tears and much back-slapping and laughter.  In the clamor, the child-- _ Arthur’s child _ \--turns toward him and slowly wakes, her face screwing up at the disturbance, her eyes slitted open just wide enough that Arthur can see the blue of them.

“Hello, Peregrine,” he says softly, just for her.  She stares at him for a good long moment, ignoring the jostling of people around them, then slowly breaks into a smile.


	5. Epilogue

They wed at Yule, when Merlin’s next heat is imminent, with holly and mistletoe woven through their crowns.  The hall is packed with people, nobles and knights, servants, Druids, and everyone between, until there’s barely an aisle.  Arthur stands on the dais with old Geoffrey, heart in his throat, as Merlin proceeds through the crowd looking radiant in in fitted trousers and a tunic and coat of purple and blue, with a shock of red at his throat, tucked under his collar.  He catches Arthur’s eyes and holds them, a smile tugging at his lips and a flush reddening his ears, and all is respectfully quiet around them.

Then Merlin reaches the stair up to the dais, and small piping voice calls out, “Mama!”

Merlin turns immediately to where their daughter stands in the front row, her hand in Percival’s.  “Yes, Peregrine?”

She replies slowly, in the ponderous way of toddlers, “My...my...my um...my dress is...my dress is itchy.”

Gwaine snorts into his hand, then grunts when Percival steps on his foot.  Merlin goes to the girl and crouches before her, smoothing flyaway hair out of her face.  “Let’s see if I can fix that.”  He murmurs a soft spell and taps his finger to the material of her little red gown; it shimmers all over, and she giggles.  “Better?”

“Yes,” she replies solemnly, and Merlin kisses her nose before standing and returning to the dais.  Arthur couldn’t possibly love either of them any more than he already does, but he feels his heart throb with trying, anyway.  He reaches out for Merlin’s hands, folds them tightly in his own.

Geoffrey, taking a dimmer view of the interruption, clears his throat.  “My lords, ladies and gentlemen of Camelot, we are gathered here today to celebrate, by the ancient rite of handfasting, the union of Arthur Pendragon and Merlin of Ealdor, called Emrys.  Is it your wish, Arthur, to become one with this man?”

“Yes,” Arthur affirms, his voice coming out in a rasp.

“Is it your wish, Merlin, to become one with this man?”

Merlin grins and squeezes Arthur’s hands.  “It is.”

Geoffrey nods, looks past them to the assembled crowd.  “Do any say nay?”

“Papa!” comes the piping voice again.  Gwaine genuinely guffaws this time, and there are muffled laughs all around the hall.

Arthur turns to her.  “Yes, Peregrine?”

“Papa, I’m...um...I’m hungry.”

“Come here, love.”  Immediately she makes her way up the step to Arthur’s side, and he lets go one of Merlin’s hands to reach into a pouch on his belt.  When he pulls out a biscuit, Merlin huffs a laugh and Peregrine goes up on her toes with grabby hands out.  “Just this one, all right?  We’ll be having a feast soon.”

“Thank you Papa,” she replies with her mouth full, and leans into his leg.

Arthur slides his hand back into Merlin’s and nods to Geoffrey, who looks quite put out at this point.  He leans between them to drape a garland of evergreen around their linked hands.  “With this garland I do tie a knot, and by doing so bind your hands and your hearts for all eternity.”

There is a moment of silence; then a sharp squeeze from Merlin reminds Arthur of his cue.  “I, Arthur Pendragon, King of Camelot, shall not seek to change thee in any way, shall respect thee as I respect myself.  I shall love thee all the days of our lives.”  Merlin’s eyes are conspicuously wet now, and Arthur gently laces their fingers together.

“I, Merlin of Ealdor, Emrys, shall not seek to change thee in any way,” Merlin says with quiet conviction, “shall respect thee as I respect myself.  I shall love thee all the days of our lives.”

“Why are you,” comes Peregrine’s voice from below them, “why are you talking so funny?”

“That’s how this ceremony goes, love,” Merlin says.  “Have you finished that biscuit already?”

Geoffrey clears his throat quite ostentatiously.  “I now pronounce you to be husband and husband,” he proclaims, and Arthur nearly laughs.  Then Merlin leans in to kiss him, and for the long minutes their lips are touching, nothing else in the world matters at all.

He only barely registers the hall erupting into applause, and Peregrine between them shouting “Me too, me too!”  When they break apart, flushed and glowing and standing a little indecorously close together, he finds the whole room cheering and beaming at them--except for Leon, who has scooped Peregrine up and is tickling her face with his beard as she shrieks with laughter.  He wishes, for just a moment, that his father could have seen him this happy; he wonders if his father  _ was _ this happy, the day he wed Arthur’s mother.  He leans into Merlin again to kiss his cheek and breathe in that thirsty-earth smell, to quickly taste it.  Merlin shudders and catches his mouth again.  

“We have to at least show up at the feast,” he breathes into Arthur’s mouth, though he sounds regretful about it.

Arthur bites lightly at Merlin’s lower lip.  “Just for one course.  Nobody’s expecting more than that.”  Merlin chuckles, and reluctantly pulls away.  Then together, hand in hand, they lead the assembly down the aisle and onward to the feast.

***

“Where’s Pip staying?” Arthur manages to ask later, letting Merlin push him down into their bed.

Merlin, flushed and sweating with his heat, leans over him with a predatory look.  “Gwen and Elyan are looking after her.  She told me this morning she’d prefer a baby sister to a baby brother, by the way.”

“Well,” Arthur pants, fitting his hands to Merlin’s arse and drawing their hips together,  “I’ll do my best.”

Then Merlin  _ growls _ against his throat, and any other words get lost.

***

The babe is born on a crisp autumn evening just before the solstice--a boy, to Peregrine’s disappointment--with a shock of dark hair and gold already in his eyes.  

“I’m naming this one,” Arthur says as he leans over them, Merlin exhausted and drawn and already in love, the infant latched onto his breast.

“All right.  You’re naming him Kestrel, though.”

“Oh, am I?  You’re forgetting who’s the king here, Merlin.”

“Mmm, and you’re forgetting who just labored for sixteen hours to push this child out of his body.”

“No, I’m certainly not forgetting that,” Arthur murmurs, smoothing Merlin’s hair back.  His husband looks up at him with a weary smile, and Arthur traces the bags beneath his eyes with his thumb.  The room is still bustling with people, Finna ordering folk about and Gaius seeing to Merlin’s stitches, Gwen nearby with Peregrine in her arms, Geoffrey poking his head in with a quill and book in his hand.  The bell in the tower and others in the lower town are joyously pealing, announcing a healthy birth, and there is chatter and cheering that filters through the windows from the crowd below. 

In a voice to rise over all of this, Arthur calls, “Lord Monmouth, please record the birth this day of the second child of King Arthur Pendragon and Lord Merlin Emrys.”  Arthur laces his fingers through Merlin’s and squeezes.  “A prince.  Kestrel.” 


End file.
